AN ATTEMPT AT ARSON
As Scott had predicted, it grew dark in the valleys long before he
reached home, and he lost the trail on the open ridge. He did not worry
because he knew that if he went downhill he would soon come out on a
road somewhere, but he was impatient of delay. He was anxious to get
back to the camps since he had heard of Foster’s proposal to burn them
up. Maybe he was trying it again now.
It was awkward work going through the dense woods and brush in the dark,
but as he expected it was not so very long before he came out into a
road. He did not recognize the road at first but he knew that he must
turn to the left if he would find the road up which he had come.
About a half a mile further down he came upon an unusually large house
and recognized it instantly as Foster Wait’s. There was a light in the
room downstairs but the shades were drawn down tight. Scott was looking
curiously at the house as he walked by when two silhouettes suddenly
appeared on the white shade. He was not surprised to recognize one of
them as Foster, but when he recognized the other he stopped short and
almost cried aloud. It was Dick.
Ordinarily Scott would have considered it dishonorable to eavesdrop, but
he felt sure that the meeting of these two men had something to do with
him. What better would Foster want than to get hold of a drunken man who
was disgruntled over his treatment at the camp! Maybe that was his
purpose in hanging around there.
Under the circumstances Scott had no scruples about attempting to hear
the conversation. He determined to crawl up to the window and listen.
Hardly had he taken a step in that direction when the loud baying of a
hound told him that it was hopeless. As much as he wanted to hear that
conversation he beat a hasty retreat. And he was none too soon. The echo
of the dog’s bark had hardly died away when he heard the door open and a
voice roughly scolding the hound.
Scott hurried down the road while his imagination ran riot in vain
attempts to solve Foster’s plans. Foster Wait was not the man to take in
a drunken lumberjack unless he intended to make use of him, and Scott
felt sure that those plans had something to do with him. At one time he
thought of going to Sewall for help, but his pride prevented him. He had
protected himself before from smarter men than Foster and he would do it
again.
It was long after supper-time when Scott reached the camp; in fact, many
of the men had already gone to bed. Fortunately the cook was up making
bread, and he went into the cook shack to get a handout. Scott was a
favorite with all the crew, and when the cook saw who it was he denied
himself the grouch he usually enjoyed when any one intruded into his
castle, and hunted up some coffee, ham, doughnuts and cookies—the
unvarying lumberjack handout—as though he enjoyed it.
Scott was absorbed in his own thoughts and let the cook do most of the
talking, but as he was leaving a thought occurred to him. “By the way,
Ben, if Dick should come back here for a handout any time, keep him here
and send for me. I want to talk to him.”
He went out through the bunk house and motioned to Mac to follow him.
When the foreman came out he led him over to a log a little way from the
bunk house and sat down.
“Mac, I have seen and heard a couple of things to-day which have me
pretty badly worried.”
Mac looked at him keenly in the dim starlight. “I’ll bet it’s got
something to do with that guy who scared the team this morning.”
“You guessed right the first time.”
“I knew it,” Mac exclaimed. “I’ve been thinking about him all day. What
is he up to now?”
“Day before yesterday he tried to get a man to set fire to these camps.”
“Set fire to ’em!” Mac almost shouted. “The dirty scoundrel!”
“And to-night,” Scott continued, “I came by his house and happened to
see him talking to the man you fired this morning.”
Mac gave an angry snort of disgust. “That’s a fine howdy-do. A man who
wants to find somebody to burn down the camp and a drunken lumberjack I
fired this morning. Couldn’t find a better combination than that in all
North Carolina.”
“I came right on down here to warn you, because I thought you would want
to put on a guard,” Scott said.
“Put on a guard nothing,” Mac exclaimed contemptuously. “We’ll go up
there and clean them out. The boys would enjoy it and I can have the
crew out in ten minutes.”
“I know the men could do it, Mac, and would probably enjoy it, but it
would stir up too much of a row. If it were just those two it might be
all right, but he is a leader of a big gang and we would have to fight
all the people on that side of the mountain.”
“Well, we can do that, too,” Mac answered doggedly. “Nobody ever burned
my camps yet and nobody’s going to.”
“Just the same,” Scott insisted, “we’re not going to fight that gang. We
might do them up all right, but there would not be much logging done
around here for the next month or two, and I’m here to get those logs
out.”
Mac sat for a while in sullen silence. “Well, what are you going to do
then, let them burn you up?”
“No,” Scott cried impatiently. “I have no more notion of burning up than
you have, and if you cannot find a man here to keep watch at night I’ll
do it myself.”
Again Mac sat for a while in silence. His stubborn Scotch blood was slow
to give in. The last voices had died away in the bunk house and Ben had
finished his work in the cook shack. There was not a sound save an
occasional snore and the scream of an owl far up on the mountain.
Mac finally surrendered as he had known he would from the first, and was
about to speak when a crackling of twigs in the forest behind them
brought them both bolt upright with nerves a-tingle and eyes and ears
straining. They could see nothing, but it was evident that some one was
making his way slowly through the woods towards the bunk house and was
making a great deal of noise doing it.
“If that fellow is sneaking up on us, he must think we’re dead,” Mac
whispered.
There was a loud crash as though some one had fallen over a log. They
heard some mumbling but could not distinguish the words. After a few
seconds of silence the advance on the bunk house began again. A man
passed slowly within ten feet of them and made his slow way to the side
of the bunk house. They could hear him scraping together dead leaves and
brush.
Scott and Mac crept silently up to where they could see what he was
doing, and Scott was not at all surprised to recognize Dick. He had
scraped together a big pile of leaves and heaped them against the side
of the bunk house. Scott gathered himself for a spring as he saw him
fumbling in his pocket for a match to set fire to the leaves.
But instead of taking out a match Dick stuck both hands in his pockets
and swayed back and forth staring curiously at the bunk house.
“Can’t burn that,” he mumbled. “Wouldn’t be gentlemanly to burn the bunk
house with all those men in it. Can’t get ’em out without wakin’ ’em
up.”
He scratched his head in perplexity for a minute and then started toward
the barn. Scott punched Mac in the ribs and they both followed. At the
barn Dick repeated the performance. When his leaves were all piled he
remembered the horses. Again he stopped and scratched his head. “No
gentleman would burn a horse,” he mumbled.
For a moment he stared helplessly about him. Then he seemed to get an
idea. He made his way uncertainly to the door of the barn and
disappeared inside. They watched to see that he did not strike a match,
but did not interfere with him. After a considerable time he stumbled
out leading two sleepy horses. He turned them loose outside and went
back for two more. The first pair, finding themselves free and having no
desire to go to work at that time of the night went back into the barn.
Dick stopped and looked at them wonderingly as he led out two more.
Scott and Mac were almost in hysterics. “Let me handle him,” Scott
whispered.
“Hello, Dick!” Scott exclaimed, suddenly, “what are you doing out here
at this time of night?”
Dick dropped the halters of the horses he was leading and braced himself
as though he expected somebody to jump on him.
“Why don’t you come inside and go to bed? It’s late,” Scott continued.
Dick relaxed when he saw he was in no immediate danger of attack, and
winked at them knowingly. “Didn’t you give me my time?” he asked.
“Give you your time!” Scott exclaimed. “Certainly we gave you your time,
but you were drunk then. You’re sober now. Why don’t you let Foster Wait
get somebody else to do his dirty work for him? No gentleman would want
to burn another man’s buildings.”
Dick looked at him uncertainly for a minute and then straightened up
with painful dignity.
“That’s right,” he said. “That’s what I was going to tell him. No
gentleman would burn a horse.”
“Of course not,” Scott agreed. “Come on in.”
He took Dick by the arm and led him into the bunk house. “There’s your
bunk. Crawl in.”
Dick obeyed without a word but as he rolled over they heard him mumble,
“I’ll show him he can’t give me an ungentlemanly job.”
“Going to call up the sheriff?” Mac asked when they were outside.
“No,” Scott replied emphatically. “Arrest him, and when he gets out
he’ll join Foster again. Put him to work in the morning and he’ll be all
right.”
“Reckon you’re right,” Mac admitted. “Good night.”